


Right in Front of You

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Romance, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Brock Rumlow is a bad person, But sometimes he feels compunction, Lying in a Relationship, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Masochism, The world needs more Jolly Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2261424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's grown accustomed to Rumlow's smart mouth, and sometimes he doesn't listen as closely as he ought to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right in Front of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bofurrific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [在你眼前](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2274873) by [blahblahzhou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahzhou/pseuds/blahblahzhou)



“Hurt me, Big Guy,” Rumlow says, body braced for a fight. They’re on the mats in SHIELD’s gym and Rumlow’s already panting from his last spar with Rollins. “Really kick my ass.” 

Steve smiles and shakes his head, like Rumlow’s obsession with pushing himself to his absolute limits is endearing—it is—and not a sign that he ought to be called in for a psych eval—it also is. “You’d sit out the next mission with a broken jaw. Less of a headache for everyone else, though.” He grins. “Maybe I should.” 

“Least I’d stop asking.” 

It isn’t a fight; Steve bear hugs Rumlow and pins him to the mats until the STRIKE commander’s laughing too hard to keep insisting that Steve give it his all. Rumlow’s masochism is never as disconcerting as it ought to be. His determination makes it endearing, almost admirable or beautiful. 

Rumlow finds him in the showers and snaps his wet towel against Steve’s back before he leans against the wall, smirking, presenting himself. His grin is wide and cocky but there’s a hesitation beneath that Steve’s never seen in him before. It’s endearing, almost beautiful. “Hurt me, Rogers. I want to wear your bruises, I want everyone to know where they’re from.” 

Steve trails a hand down his chest. “Maybe I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“Oh, you do.” Rumlow closes his eyes, arching into the touch. “You do, you just don’t know it yet.” 

Steve presses his lips to Rumlow’s, laying a quick succession of kisses up his cheek. “What’s your safe word?” he whispers, nipping at Rumlow’s ear. 

“Winter,” Rumlow purrs, eyes half-open and clouded, dreamy. “Yours?” 

“Bucky.” 

Rumlow wears the bruises so well Steve can’t bear to let them fade. 

*

Peggy likes Rumlow, though she says he’s too old for Steve. Rumlow laughs and argues that the same is true in reverse. “But it’s not really like that,” he adds, like his neck isn’t mottled purple from Steve’s lips. “Cap’s too good for me.” 

He leaves to take a call and Peggy watches him go. “He seems sweet enough,” she says. “And he has a fabulous arse.” 

Steve chokes on his glass of water and Peggy rolls her eyes, muttering that he always was excitable. When Rumlow steps back in, she’s forgotten his name, but he only smiles and reintroduces himself. 

Rumlow is quiet on the drive back to his apartment. 

“Sorry,” Steve says, placing his hand on Rumlow’s knee. “I know it can be tough, I just—”

“It’s fine, Rogers.” Rumlow shrugs, eyes fixed on the road. “My granddad, I was pretty young when he kicked it—when he _passed_ —but I remember he got that way, toward the end. It’s not like I’m offended.” A pause. Rumlow chews at his lip and then he chuckles. “Well, except on your behalf, maybe.” 

“How’s that?” 

“She thought we were a couple.” He shakes his head. “This—it’s _fun_ but I’m no good for you. I’d fuck you up, Cap, if we were. I’d fuck you up so bad.” 

Steve smiles, rubbing his hand gently on Rumlow’s thigh. “America’s made it through worse than Brock Rumlow, buddy,” he says, and Rumlow laughs so hard they almost miss their exit. 

*

“It seems a little egotistical, hanging out in your own exhibit,” Rumlow says. He stares up at a photograph of Steve in the WWII uniform, enlarged and encompassing nearly the whole wall, then glances at the man beside him. “And I’ve gotta say I like the new suit better. Tighter.” 

Steve grins and smacks him on the shoulder. “It’s not about me. It’s about the memories. And everyone, the whole team’s got a place here.” 

“STRIKE will be like that one day.” Rumlow lets Steve take his hand and guide him farther into the exhibit. “We’re gonna change the world, Rogers. Wait and see.” 

He listens to Steve’s stories of the war, quiet but engaged. He asks the questions only another soldier would think to ask, eyes darting between the displays and Steve like he can’t decide what he’d rather see. He makes it easy for Steve to lose himself in the memories and it takes him too long to realize that Rumlow’s fallen silent. 

They’re at Bucky’s display, standing before the looping footage of Steve grinning and Bucky laughing, radiant, _alive_ , and Rumlow looks like he’s slipping into shock. He stares, pale and wide-eyed, like he’s never seen Bucky Barnes. Like Bucky’s smiling face isn’t in every American history text book. Steve has to shake his shoulder to get him to respond. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Rumlow chokes on air and Steve starts to guide him toward the nearest bench, but Rumlow shakes his head and pulls away. “I’m fine. I’m _fine_. Just rec—just had a sudden attack of conscience, is all.” 

“I don’t follow.” 

“You’re an American icon.” Rumlow forces a grin, waving his hand at the exhibitions around them. “And I’m dirtying you up. Shameful, really.” 

Steve knows that’s not it, but he doesn’t press the issue. Maybe something in one of his stories triggered an unpleasant memory of Rumlow’s own tours. Maybe the sight of Bucky made him feel inadequate. Whatever the reason, Steve just lays his arm across Rumlow’s shoulders and holds him close until the color’s back in his face. 

That night Rumlow shakes him awake, eyes desperate and gleaming in the dark. “Hurt me. Punish me, Steve, I need it. I deserve it.” 

“What?” Steve sits up, moving to turn on the light, but Rumlow grabs his wrist and his hand is trembling, clammy. 

“Punish me. I’ve been bad, I’ve been so bad, you have to teach me a lesson.” 

“You haven’t,” Steve says. It’s a game they’ve played, he knows it must be a game, but Rumlow’s never sounded so wretched over it in the past. 

“I’m bad, Steve. I’m fucking _evil_. Hurt me. Hurt me, _please_.”

Rumlow’s shaking like a leaf and Steve should stop him, should turn on the light and have the conversation they’ve needed to have since Rumlow first nagged him to spar. It’s not safe, Rumlow’s love of pain, it’s not _well_ , and Steve tells himself what they’ve done before was okay because before it was only a game. It’s not a game now; Rumlow’s blurring the line and Steve can’t continue, can’t hurt him in a state like this and still live with himself. But Rumlow won’t stop trembling in spite of the hands Steve runs over his limbs, won’t stop begging, and Steve tells himself if this gets Rumlow through the night then they can have the talk they need in the morning. 

He pins Rumlow to the bed, knowing the man’s wrists will be bruised by the daylight and hating himself for it. “You’ve been bad,” he says, stern but soft. 

Rumlow tries to smile, but the motion looks broken on his face. “You have no idea.”


End file.
